


Curtain Call

by dracoqueen22



Series: Memento Mori [1]
Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: Assassination, Background Character Death, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, Mild Gore, Non Consensual, Tactile, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-07
Updated: 2012-09-07
Packaged: 2017-11-13 18:17:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/506326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracoqueen22/pseuds/dracoqueen22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Someone had to be willing to cross the line and Jazz had nothing left to lose.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Curtain Call

**Author's Note:**

> For tf-rare-pairing weekly challenge: Megatron/Jazz, taking you down the dark path.

  
  
Megatron stirs from recharge slowly, his processors coming online in staggered pulses, thoughts torpidly connecting. It feels like he's spent the night indulging in high grade and only collapsed over his berth when his tanks refused to accept one more drop.  
  
Except that he remembers last night and he remembers drinking a cube of low-grade, reminding Starscream to keep an eye on the perimeter sensors, and climbing comfortably into his berth. There's certainly nothing in his memory core to explain this sluggishness.  
  
Nevertheless, it is present.  
  
His systems start to boot, HUD scrolling a status report.  
  
 _Weapon systems, offline.  
  
Motor functions, disabled.  
  
Energy levels, fifty-four percent.  
  
Comm systems, offline.  
  
Audials, online.  
  
Optics, booting. _  
  
This is disturbing.  
  
His optics glitch with static. His limbs refuse to move. And the pressure sensors across his chassis indicate the presence of a tangible weight parked on his frame.  
  
Megatron's vocalizer admits a low-toned growl. “Fraggit, Starscream, I'm not in the mood for one of your games.”  
  
“That tells me way more 'bout you 'n Screamer's relationship than I ever wanted ta know.”  
  
His energon runs cold in his lines. Megatron knows that voice, even as a casual scan pings back with an Autobot ident code.  
  
His optics reboot, vision returning, and he stares into the face of Optimus' pet saboteur, his once third in command but now second because Starscream finally did something right and disposed of that annoying tactician.  
  
“You,” he hisses, trying and failing to activate his battle systems. The connections are still there, but he's been prevented from accessing them, something that is no difficulty for the mech currently straddling his chassis.  
  
“Me,” Jazz replies with an upward tilt of his helm, his visor gleaming like an oil stain down at Megatron. “You really shouda seen me comin', Megs.” His palms land on Megatron's chestplate, fingers tapping a nonsense rhythm. “This was kinda inevitable.”  
  
Fear is not an emotion Megatron has ever embraced. Nevertheless, he feels the smallest trickle of unease wind its way through his spark.  
  
“How so?”  
  
Those hands sweep across Megatron's chestplate, light like a caress but noticeably avoiding the Decepticon emblem.  
  
“It's been years, decades, and we're still fightin', still tearin' into each other like we got somethin' to fight for,” Jazz replies and his expression doesn't change, his optics inscrutable behind the visor. “It has to end sometime, doesn't it?”  
  
Megatron's optics cycle down, the unease growing. There's something in the mech's energy field, tightly contained and cryptic, that doesn't bode well. Yet, Jazz is an Autobot, soft-sparked and lenient. If his visit intended for mere intimidation, Jazz will be disappointed.  
  
“It will,” Megatron growls, inwardly prodding at his motor functions. Given time, stalling the seemingly crazed saboteur, he thinks he can work around whatever virus Jazz has used. “When I grind your worthless Prime beneath my heel.”  
  
Jazz laughs, but it carries no humor. His hands continue their unhurried sweep, heat pulsing from his fingers, igniting the sensors buried under Megatron's armor. The tips of those long fingers probe into transformation seams, brushing over cabling beneath.  
  
“Tell me, Megatron. Do you know what I was before th' war?” Jazz asks, hands gliding down Megatron's side, static electricity crawling lazily over grey plating in his wake.  
  
It takes more concentration than Megatron is willing to admit to access the pitiful datafiles he carries on the few Autobots he considers dangerous. “A thief.”  
  
“Mmm. Yeah. S'what my official file says.” Jazz leans closer, a mockery of a lover's embrace. “But that's what I _became_ when ya destroyed my city.”  
  
His hands trek down, smoothing over Megatron's side plating, teasing gaps along the way, dragging the curls of electricity with him. Megatron's sensors alight one by one, unused to this slow and gentle stimulation, but liking it nonetheless. Confused by a touch that is not gained in battle, that does not lead to pain, his sensors can only translate it as pleasure.  
  
A wicked gleam lights up Jazz's visor. “I was what the humans would call a housewife. Had a family. A bond. Some mechlets.” Jazz's helm tilts up, his concentration shifted, even his touches pausing. “My bond worked for the council. He was a data courier. I was a normal mech. Nothin' special 'bout me.”  
  
Megatron sneers, the lightest flicker of the Autobot's energy field pulsing at his own with a disgusting amount of sorrow. “Why am I not surprised? You Autobots and your perfect--”  
  
“I never said it was perfect,” Jazz cuts him off, sitting up straight, ending the casual drape across Megatron's chassis. His hands start to move again, exploring grey plating with a gentleness that belies the disquiet in Jazz's field. “My bond was a slagger with a penchant for high grade and one of our requested mechlets split-sparked and we weren't prepared for 'em. But it was life. It was my life. And ya took that from me.”  
  
Jazz's fingers scrape against Megatron's armor, flecking away paint in a brief flicker of pain before his touch gentles again. “I survived though. Me 'n one of my mechlets. Though eventually ya killed him, too.”  
  
Megatron's power plant vibrates with restrained fury. How he wishes he could free himself from this motor-lock! And why hasn't anyone come yet? Where the frag is Starscream? Or Motormaster? Or any one of his Decepticons who surely must know of this Autobot incursion?  
  
“I've killed a lot of mechs,” Megatron retorts, hoping to infuriate Jazz into making a mistake, into breaking his concentration. He prods harder at the locks on his motor controls, feeling them figuratively weaken under his mental onslaught. Soundwave had taught him well.  
  
“Yeah, ya have. So've I. In fact, I don't suppose any of us are innocent anymore.” Jazz pauses, his fingers catching on the edge of an armor plate, dancing beneath, playing over sensitive wires that are usually buried and protected.  
  
Megatron fights back a groan, pleasure coiling through his systems at an unhurried rate. A purely natural response to intended stimulus, never mind that Megatron holds no attraction to the pit-spawned saboteur.  
  
“All our hands're dirty,” Jazz adds and pushes a light magnetic pulse against Megatron's circuits.  
  
He grits his denta, frame twitching despite the motor lock, stirred by Jazz's touch. “Is that it then?” he demands, his own energy field lashing free, seeking to coil out, anger mixed with outrage mixed with unease and beneath it all, the tiniest thread of pleasure. “Revenge?”  
  
Jazz shifts, plating scraping against plating in an electric surge of warmth. “Revenge?” His mouthplates twist with disdain. “Ya say that like we haven't been doling it out all along. Who even remembers the old cause anymore?”  
  
His fingers delve into the notches at Megatron's pelvic array, broader gaps to ensure a wider range of movement, and stroke over bundled cables. Megatron feels his plating rattle, his spark give a surge of interest, his energy field buzzing with too much emotion.  
  
“What's the human saying?” Jazz continues. “An optic for an optic? 'Cept in the end we're all blind. So no. This isn't revenge. It's fate.”  
  
Megatron grinds his gears, audibly expression his contempt. “Pretty lies to justify your actions.” He sneers, prodding one last time at the locks on his motor controls and nearly crowing victory when they finally fall beneath his onslaught.  
  
But first, to distract the Autobot, who seems oddly intent on pleasuring Megatron and nothing else.  
  
“Who was it?” Megatron demands, tensing and loosening his hydraulics, feeling control seep back into his lines. “Which of your precious Autobots did I kill to inspire our current situation?”  
  
He expects Jazz's field to go rigid, or perhaps flex with fury and grief. He expects Jazz's soft caresses to turn into harsh touches.  
  
What he gets instead is the sight of Jazz's lips curling into a slow, slow grin. The look of a crazed mech. The look Vortex gets when he's been given the kind of mission that involves interrogations and torture. The look Starscream gets when he thinks he's finally a step ahead of Megatron.  
  
“It doesn't matter. Not really,” Jazz says, hands sweeping down now, caressing Megatron's pelvic array, tracing the patterns on his plating, pushing into the gaps at his hip joints. “This started with you and now I'm going to end it.”  
  
“You're going to kill me?” Megatron can't hide his disbelief, fingers twitching, curling and uncurling into fists. Jazz doesn't seem to notice. Good. “Your methods of torture are severely lacking!”  
  
“Who said this was torture?” Jazz's glossa snakes out, sliding over his lipplates, static crawling from his fingers into Megatron's systems, winding the pleasure through him with careful planning. “Mebbe I'm just doin' this for fun.”  
  
There's a nonchalance to Jazz's words, a complete lack of fear, that makes the growing unease develop into anxiety. But Megatron refuses to be cowed by a mech smaller than him. Or one of Prime's pets and a mere housemech at that.  
  
Though the increasing silence from his Decepticons along with the complete lack of any kind of intruder alarm is a bit distressing. If Jazz has always been so capable of eluding Megatron's security net, why hasn't he done so before?  
  
“If ya want a real answer though,” Jazz continues with a rumbling purr that doesn't match the apathy in his energy field, “I'd have to say the breaking point was when ya killed Ratchet.”  
  
Megatron's ventilations stall, despite the heat crawling over his circuits. The medic? That was months ago!  
  
“Thinkin' back, I'd almost believe it was an accident,” Jazz says, fingers digging in now, every stroke making Megatron twitch as electricity snaps in the air with the scent of heated metal. “Wrong place, wrong time. Course, Sunny 'n Sides didn't think so. S'why they killed Soundwave.”  
  
Now this... this Megatron remembers.  
  
Prime's terror twins, ignoring their favored opponents and heading straight for Soundwave, tackling him out of nowhere and tearing off his plating. It was like watching true spawns of Unicron eager for the taste of a fresh spark. It was brutal and far beyond what Megatron could have believed the Autobots capable, even with their reputation.

And it was only later that Megatron learned Soundwave still had Ratbat docked. Two deaths for the price of one.

  
“But his little mechs didn't like that too much,” Jazz says, like someone reciting an old story or maybe reading a supply requisition. “So they ganged up on Bluestreak. Poor kid never saw 'em coming.”  
  
Jazz tilts his helm, looking down on Megatron, his visor dull yet Megatron knows he's being observed. His wrists twitch, testing the strength of the clamps keeping his arms pinned. They don't budge.  
  
“That lit a fire in us. Slag got serious.” Jazz's lips pressed together in a grim line. “Smokescreen took out Rumble. The Combaticons ground Mirage into a pulp, didn't even try to interrogate him. From there it was a killing game.”  
  
Jazz's fingers hook in a thick panel of armor, holding on, ceasing their pleasurable torment, though not the shameless pulsing of his magnetics. “Huffer. Windcharger. Inferno. Skids.”  
  
Megatron twitches his ankles. They can't move either. His weapons systems are still offline. He cycles down his optics, glaring bright. “Reflector. Skywarp. Hook. Wildrider.”  
  
Contrary to Autobot belief, Megatron does know each and every one of his Decepticons. And he can list every mech that the Autobots have slaughtered.  
  
Jazz's fingers grip tighter, sending brief warnings from Megatron's pressure sensors across his HUD. “Ironhide. Perceptor. Prowl.”  
  
“Onslaught. Laserbeak. Dirge.” Megatron jerks against the chains, surging upward, nearly throwing Jazz from his perch, though his restraints don't even creak. “Tell me again it's not revenge!”  
  
“It's not,” Jazz says flatly and he withdraws his hands, though that doesn't stop the need thrumming through Megatron's sensor net. “Its about doin' what has ta be done.”  
  
One hand rises to his chestplate, while the other lands on Megatron's, tracing the invisible seam in his armor, protecting his spark.  
  
“It's why we're here, your spark is in my hands, and the end of the war is in sight.” Jazz's helm lifts, his visor tilting away from Megatron, focusing on something in his quarters. “I should've done this years ago. Prime always declined. Said we shouldn't win be becoming our enemies.”  
  
His palm flattens on Megatron's chestplate, pressing with a tangible weight. “But I don't have anything left to lose.”  
  
There's a light click as Jazz thumbs a catch on his chestplate. Megatron's efforts to escape cease at the unexpected move on the saboteur's part.  
  
And when pale green light starts to spill into his quarters, Megatron goes completely still. What the frag is going on? What the frag does the Autobot think he's doing?  


 

o0o0o

  
  
Once he might have been alarmed at bearing his spark in front of his most dangerous enemy. At showing his vulnerability to Megatron, the slagmaker himself.  
  
Right now, Jazz doesn't have anything left in him to feel anything so strong as such horror. He doesn't even hesitate to activate the protocols that'll split his chestplates, providing open access to his spark.  
  
He watches, apathetic, as Megatron stares at him, the blood-red gleam of optics focused on Jazz's spark. And he notices the very moment that Megatron spies the item that Jazz has brought with him.  
  
“You--”  
  
“There are dozens like it set all around the Nemesis,” Jazz says, feeling a sharp burst of triumph blast through the indifference. But it's gone just as quickly. “They might not get all of you, but that's fine. I'll have done the best I can.” And taken the one spark that matters most.  
  
Megatron's energy field fluctuates, fury and anxiety fighting for prominence. “Shockwave--”  
  
Jazz's free hand twitches, shaking a finger at him. “Won't be sending help anytime soon, if that's what ya hope for. It's gonna take a long time for 'Jack to fix the space bridge. If he even can.”  
  
The space bridge had been Jazz's first stop. And yes, he's cut off the Autobots from Cybertron, but they at least have Omega Supreme. Jazz hopes to take down Astrotrain tonight, completely cutting off the Decepticons from possible reinforcements. Hopefully, whosoever survives will be willing to lay down arms.  
  
Either way, Megatron will be dead.  
  
Jazz isn't going to live long enough to see the end. He's kind of glad for it. He doesn't belong in a peaceful world anyway. He doesn't know how to be anything but what he is: a killer. He has done what he must and he doesn't regret a moment of it. He can't go back.  
  
He looks forward to his end.  
  
Megatron throws his weight up again, trying to break free, but it's a pointless endeavor. The restraints Jazz brought were designed to hold down Grimlock. There's little chance of Megatron breaking them. It's a pity his motor-lock didn't hold.  
  
A growl vibrates through the tyrant's frame, his lipplates peeling back, revealing his denta. His optics flash, vocalizer crackling.  
  
That's when a tangible shudder races through the Nemesis.  
  
Jazz feels a smile, one without pleasure in it, curl up his mouth as he reaches down, stroking the seam of Megatron's chestplate. Ratchet's gone now, but his knowledge isn't. And Jazz has hacked into Ratchet's database; he knows all the ways to open a mech's chestplate, even without their permission.  
  
“Ah,” Jazz says with fake surprise. “Right on schedule.”  
  
Megatron's optics flare with hatred. “Coward,” he hisses, but he arches toward Jazz's fingers anyway, as he manipulates Megatron's field with ease, drawing out the pleasure.  
  
Two clicks echo in the room as Jazz flicks the manual catches on Megatron's chestplate. The palest of glows illuminate the space between them and isn't it strange how pure Megatron's spark looks? Jazz feels like he should be able to spot some abnormality, something twisted that could explain the tyrant's lust for power and insanity.  
  
But there's not. Evil, after all, is never so easily recognized.  
  
“Yeah, I probably am,” Jazz says, fingers stroking the edge of Megatron's armor, where it brackets his spark, the very core of him. “Except for you. I couldn't trust you wouldn't survive. So I'm going to have to do this myself.”  
  
Megatron's console starts to flash, blaring alerts at the both of them. The Nemesis' AI isn't nearly as advanced as Teletraan, but it's sufficient.  
  
Jazz looks at it, but he doesn't need to see the monitors to know what it says. “Outer hull's been breached. Seawater's pouring in. I sure hope there aren't any other bombs.”  
  
Another explosion rocks the Nemesis and the entire ship groans under the force of it. The pressure wave's stronger, the bomb closer than before, and Jazz rocks on top of Megatron. He clamps his knees, refusing to tumble off.  
  
“Oh, wait,” Jazz says. “There are.”  
  
“You don't have the bearings,” Megatron snarls, but there's real fear in his vocals. He doesn't believe his own bravado.  
  
Jazz inclines his helm and reaches for Megatron's spark, stroking one finger delicately over the pale corona. His lips curl into a smirk as Megatron vocalizes a wordless groan, his body arching toward Jazz, static electricity leaping out and grasping for Jazz's finger. Pleasure spikes in Megatron's field, his entire frame shuddering.  
  
“Don't I?” Jazz says, his voice an intimate mockery. “Ya should consider yourself lucky. I could kill ya now with all the pain and agony ya deserve.”  
  
Megatron glares, the sort of look in his optics that Autobots have been fearing for years. Jazz is beyond that fear now.  
  
The tyrant can't fight the pleasure now, no matter how much he loathes it. Jazz's fingers dance blissful paths through Megatron's spark corona. One hand strokes the edges of Megatron's spark chamber, taking no joy in watching the slagmaker tremble beneath him, hovering on the cusp of overload.  
  
“Why don't you?” Megatron demands, static lacing every word. “Have your revenge!”  
  
“You're still not listening.” Jazz leans closer, their sparks coming in proximity, energies licking out as though seeking to merge but Jazz, even this close to death, wants no taste of the slagmaker's spark. He keeps a safe distance.  
  
Another explosion rocks the Nemesis. Jazz can hear the faint sounds of shouting. Emergency alarms are screeching warnings, lights flashing and painting he and Megatron in shades of eerie ocher.  
  
“Not that I think you'll ever understand. For you, this has always been about power. For us, it's been about surviving.”  
  
Megatron makes a noise of disdain, which is buried by a pleasured gasp, blue fire dancing over his plating. “Don't lie to yourself, Autobot,” he snarls. “Your precious ideals are nothing but slag! Nngh!” The last dissolves into a groan.  
  
“That may be so,” Jazz concedes, because he can admit the truth when it comes down to it. The Autobots aren't as pure as they claim to be and they are equally full of hypocrites, but Megatron doesn't have a pillar to stand on. “But Prime's twice the leader you'll ever be.”  
  
The Nemesis shifts violently and Jazz knows he's running out of time. He grits his denta, energy field flaring out and wrapping around Megatron, forcing warmth and pleasure into the tyrant. His fingers stroke a maddening path, Megatron's spark pulsing in his grasp. And he knows that the slagger is close. Has to be.  
  
Megatron snarls, a wordless refusal, his frame writhing beneath Jazz, straining yet the shackles, despite their tried strength. The metal creaks and groans, the berth dents, the Nemesis warnings shriek their dire song.  
  
Jazz reaches down with his other hand, both of them now cupping Megatron's spark chamber, thumbs stroking a soft, lover's caress against the whorls of spark-heated metal. And he's struck by a moment of irrational whimsy.  
  
The slagmaker snarls beneath him, trying to resist to no avail.  
  
“Any last words, Mighty Megatron?” Jazz croons, his apathy tainted with amusement and a sick sort of victory.  
  
Crimson optics flare blood-bright at him. “I'll see you in the Pit!”  
  
Jazz chuckles, deepy and throaty, his vocalizer starting to spit static of its own. “Mmm. I'll meet you there.”  
  
His fingers drag a long, sensuous path against the thrumming metal, energy field rising up and crashing down on Megatron, driving pleasure and demanding release.  
  
Megatron overloads with a blinding crackle of electricity, his entire frame jerking and twisting in the throes of pained pleasure. Static tingles against Jazz's plating, makes him wince and the buzzing expulsion of Megatron's energy field grates against Jazz's own.  
  
Jazz hesitates for a long, agonizing second, thinking first of Prime and how disappointed the boss would be.  
  
And then he yanks.  
  
Megatron's frame arches up toward him, trying to follow the ripped free chamber, a strangled cry escaping his vocalier. Those Decepticon-red optics flash and he jerks as Jazz forces the chamber from it's mounts.  
  
The warm metal seems to pulse in Jazz's hands, oddly thrumming, and Jazz stares, dispassionate, as the pale glow fades all too quickly. It sputters like an engine struggling to turn over before it goes as dark as the Pit, just like the tyrant's optics.  
  
Megatron's chassis collapses back onto the berth, a puppet without strings.  
  
The slagmaker is dead.  
  
Energon streaks Jazz's fingers. The smell of scorched circuits and overload is thick in the room, overwhelming even with the intruding stench of the Nemesis aflame. The empty chamber feels unnaturally heavy. Jazz flings it aside, watching it skitter across the floor and leave streaks of energon behind.  
  
Jazz reaches for his own spark, a single flick of his finger activating the bomb wired directly to his own systems. He'd meant what he said. He's taking no chances. And he'd never intended to leave the Nemesis alive.  
  
Coward? He never denied that either.  
  
Megatron's empty chest seems to stare back at him, ravaged and accusing.  
  
Jazz stretches out across the massive frame, a parody of a lover's embrace, and shudders at the sickly chill in Megatron's plating. Once thriving systems are as dead as silence.  
  
It's the sweetest sound in the universe.  
  
“You 'n me, Megatron,” Jazz murmurs as the last bomb activates, buckling Megatron's door and water starts pushing through the gaps. “We can take this dark path together.”  
  
His chronometer ticks down.  
  
He swears he can hear someone calling his designation. It's a pity his comms are useless now. It would've been nice to hear Prime's voice one last time, hear that exasperated fondness, the disappointment tinged with relief.  
  
There's a click in the rumbling quiet.  
  
Jazz offlines his optics and smiles.  


 

****


End file.
